Escape from Sinthya
by Lady Jocacia
Summary: Oneshot. Numair’s POV. His imprisonment in Lord Sinthya’s dungeons, his escape and rescue, and first impressions of Daine.


**A/N:** This fic expands on Numair's activities during Wild Magelet. His spying on the treasonous Lord Sinthya, his capture, imprisonment and escape, and his rescue by Daine in the marsh. As for Sinthya's mage, I gave him the name of Drewe.

**16 September 2006:** No changes to the fic. Some reviewers have asked for more but I feel this is complete and it leads directly into the book. I will be writing other DN fics in the future, though. Thanks to all my reviewers - you're terrific.

**Disclaimer:** Anything you recognise belongs to the very talented Tamora Pierce.

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**Escape from Sinthya**

By Lady Jocacia

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Numair Salmalín, the most powerful mage in Tortall, lay unconscious and bound in a dungeon. His shirt and breeches were filthy; his normally tidy mass of coal-black hair fallen from its horse-tail and scattered across his face.

He wasn't alone.

His captor, Lord Sinthya, regarded him from the other side of the room, contemplating his next treasonous move. He came to a decision and made his silent way towards the mage. Cautiously nudged him with the toe of one boot. Numair flopped over onto his back, head lolling.

"He's _still_ out," Sinthya grunted, and turned to the servant hovering by the foot of the stone staircase. "Get some water. Throw it on him."

The dark-haired servant hurried up the steps, whisper-quiet as he went. He returned several minutes later. Sinthya moved aside as the servant threw cold water over Numair's face, and watched as the mage was shocked into wakefulness.

"Back with us, Salmalín?" he taunted.

Numair gasped and struggled against his bonds, receiving his next nasty shock: much of his strength had gone. Sinthya put his boot on Numair's chest and pushed him back down. The floor, made of hard-packed earth, had turned to mud.

"Don't bother getting up," he said.

Still on his back, Numair's arms were now pinned painfully under his own weight and that of his captor's. "Get off me, Sinthya!" Numair commanded, body twisting as he tried to throw the man off.

Sinthya complied but not before pushing him to the floor again. Numair shook his head, clearing away most of the straggly wet clumps of hair clinging to his face. He glared up at his captor.

"You've been spying on me," Sinthya said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the mage said automatically.

The lord's eyes glittered. "I may not be as educated, intelligent or powerful as you, Master Numair, but do not play me for a fool."

Numair held his gaze and said nothing, knowing he had to get away. Sinthya really was no fool. He hoped that his captor's immediate plans involved only questions and imprisonment – the moment he was left alone, he'd be able to shape-shift out of his bonds and escape. It was a hidden talent that precious few knew about.

Sinthya's next words, however, turned Numair's worry to fear. "Find Drewe and send him to me," the lord ordered his servant. "You are dismissed."

The servant bowed and scurried away.

Turning his attention back to his captive, Sinthya began to circle, walking slowly and silently around him. Numair was forced to turn his head in order to keep watching. There was a blind spot, and his nerves were set on edge every time the man came into it – he half-expected an attack from behind. And with the coming of Drewe, Sinthya's mage, he wondered anxiously what was in store.

It was some time before Lord Sinthya spoke again. "You trespassed on my lands and entered my castle," he said, still circling. "Made yourself invisible so you could skulk around without detection. No doubt you watched. You saw I was the only one who entered the study, and you went in there as well. Searched among records and looked at my papers. I know you did this on many occasions," he said softly, "because every time I returned, they were never in exactly the same place. Different days, different papers, always slightly moved." Eyes flashing, he paused at Numair's feet, and drew out a woven leather necklace from under his own shirt. A familiar item dangled from the end of it. "This is the only key to the room. How did you get hold of it?"

Numair glared at him defiantly, determined not to show his fear.

"Answer me!" the lord demanded, infuriated by his silence. "I found dreamrose when I searched your unconscious body. Did you give it to me while I slept?"

Considering that Sinthya had already figured out events, Numair admitted to the drugging. The first night in the castle, he had slipped into the lord's room, placed the tiniest amount of dreamrose upon his lips – just enough to make him sleep solidly for a few hours – and stolen the key, necklace and all. He had made a copy and returned the original before Sinthya had woken.

The lord renewed his predatory pacing. "When I realised someone had been in the room, I had my mage create a spell to render the next person who went in there, unconscious. It took him a while, but then I ended up with you." Sinthya stopped moving right behind Numair and said near his ear, "Tell me, Numair Salmalín, how much did you commit to memory? What did you learn?"

Numair jerked, not expecting the man to have been so close. "I'm not going to tell you that!" he said roughly. He pulled against the rope around his wrists. "Untie me!"

"And let your hands free so you can use your Gift?" Sinthya said mockingly, enjoying his control. "I don't think so." Walking around, he faced Numair again.

Numair wondered how much longer he had before the mage arrived. He tried to free himself by appealing to the lord's sense of self-preservation. "I wouldn't be here without King Jonathan's approval. Both he and his Champion suspect your treason to the Crown, your alliance with Emperor Ozorne of Carthak. If you let me go now and provide information willingly, you'll be sentenced to several years in the army or the quarries. If you don't, you'll get a hanging and a home on Traitor's Hill."

The man smirked. "I'll get neither sentence."

"The Champion is nearby, and if you keep me here, she will be coming for your arrest," persisted Numair. His next words were a lie. "I am in contact with her daily. If she does not hear from me –" He stopped talking, shocked at the spreading grin on Lord Sinthya's face.

"You've been unconscious two days, Salmalín. No one has come to your rescue. And when they do, you'll be long gone."

"What do you mean?" Numair demanded hurriedly.

"You're the most powerful mage in Tortall, one of only seven black robe mages in the world. The Emperor would be very interested in such a gift as you. For removing you and placing your power at his disposal, I'm sure he will reward me richly," Sinthya said, a greedy look upon him.

Numair's level of fear shot up. He could not go to Carthak. Unknown to Sinthya and most others, he had lived there a great many years. Back then, he had been Arram Draper, friend and fellow student of the possessive and unforgiving Emperor. Nobody could leave his service or empire without consequences, especially when that person was a black robe mage educated at the University of Carthak.

When Numair had tried to leave, he had been arrested and thrown in the capital's dungeons. He had escaped, changed his name, and fled to Tortall. It was an escape he had paid for, with years of destitution before coming to the attention and friendship of the realm's monarchs, but now he had a life. If Sinthya smuggled out of the realm and back into Carthak, he would be executed within the day.

"You can't," Numair said, horrified. He swallowed and tried to reason with his captor. "If you do this, you do more than anger the King, you will anger Tortall's gods!"

"I'm more concerned with the Emperor Mage's anger," Sinthya told him. "The Emperor is a rich and powerful man. It is only a matter of time before he gains allies in other realms and conquers this one. I'm just getting in early."

"You cannot expect to remain here, after I'm gone!" Numair tried desperately. "Your castle will be searched for evidence!"

"None of which they will find," Lord Sinthya said confidently. "And you in Carthak will have no one to tell. Proof is a powerful thing as well, Salmalín. Without it, your King or his Champion cannot touch me." He looked up as Drewe, his personal mage, came down the dungeon steps. "Have you got it?" he asked.

"I have, my lord Sinthya," he said, holding up a vial. The liquid inside was pale blue, a concoction Numair wasn't familiar with.

"My mage has a talent for creating spells and potions," Sinthya informed, watching as Drewe removed its stopper.

Tied up, Numair also watched. His eyes grew wider as the mage approached. In one swift motion, Numair was seized by the nose and his head forced back, the contents poured into his mouth. His jaw was clamped shut. He thrashed around, trying to wrench his head free and spit out the potion, but the mage's grip was like iron.

Numair couldn't breathe; he was forced to swallow. The moment he did, the mage let go, and Numair took in a great, gasping lungful of air. "What did you give me?" he demanded wildly.

"It won't harm you," Sinthya said.

"_What is it_?" Numair shrieked.

"A sleeping potion," he said, eyes glittering. "I would have used your own dreamrose against you, but the vial was broken when you collapsed to my study floor. This one takes much less time to brew."

Numair's eyes started to grow heavy. Panicking, he blinked several times, trying to keep them open.

Sinthya studied him. "I see it's working," he said. "But I'll keep you tied up, I think. Even drugged, you're still dangerous."

Fog was beginning to envelope his mind. "You don't have to do this!"

"Of course I do," he said, matter-of-factly. "I know an opportunity when I see it. You shouldn't have meddled, Salmalín, you've only yourself to blame. Stormwings will arrive soon to carry and escort you to Carthak. I'd tell you to be thankful you won't smell their stench, but after two days you don't smell any better. Enjoy your last waking moments in Tortall, Numair Salmalín."

Sinthya and his mage withdrew from the dungeon, the door clanging ominously behind them.

Left alone with his fear and increasingly numbing mind, Numair started yanking on the ropes. They tightened and bit into his wrists, and refused to let him go. He tried over and over, crying out in desperation.

He had never felt so alone. Alanna the Champion and her company of soldiers from the King's Own were camped a mere thirty miles away, patiently waiting for his proof that Lord Sinthya was guilty. The lord was right: by the time she worried enough and came searching, it would be too late.

Forced to catch his breath, Numair paused in his exertions. Trembling, he looked at his surroundings. The light in the dungeon came from a pair of torches mounted high upon one wall. Shackles and chains were attached to another. Dark patches spread out below them, staining the dirt-packed floor. Other than that, the room was empty – and cold. The only way in and out was through the single metal door.

His eyes drooped. _No_! Numair thought in fright, wrenching them open. Straining his muscles, he tried again to pull his arms free from their bonds, but the ropes imprisoned him more tightly and effectively than a pair of shackles ever could. His struggles grew less.

Pausing longer for the second time, he took vague stock of his own body. His strength was rapidly fading, and he was distantly aware of hunger pains in his stomach and a raging thirst. With some sadness and humiliation, he realised he had soiled himself during his imprisonment.

He half-heartedly tried the ropes again and slumped over in defeat. Another cry escaped him. He couldn't do anything. With his hands behind his back, he couldn't see where to point and focus his magic. Even if they were tied in front, it still wouldn't matter. His power was too great – blasting apart the ropes that bound would blast his own hands off as well. His Gift was _useless_. What was the point of all that power if he couldn't even save himself?

_My Gift_, Numair thought foggily. _I forgot I can shape-shift_.

Sucking in his breath, he struggled to think of himself as a hawk. The change was very slow. His six foot five inch frame began to shrink. Black feathers sprouted over his body. His mouth elongated into a beak, feet turned into claws, and arms turned into wings as ropes and clothes fell away. Numair the hawk rolled over, freed from his bonds but now trapped within his shirt. Moving around, he searched for the opening and found it. His claws snagged in the shirt laces on the way out, and he tumbled beak over tail.

He lay there for several moments, panting and trying to remember why he was there. Why had he just turned himself into a hawk? Why was he so dizzy?

Memory slowly filtered through. Sinthya. Mages. Sending him back to Carthak. Oh.

Launching clumsily into the air, Numair flew to the door and looked stupidly at it when he saw it was closed. He turned, and flew round and round the dungeon, looking for another way out.

He didn't find it.

Fluttering back down to the door, he stood and pressed his head against the cold metal, trying to listen.

Nothing.

He had to wait.

Numair remained there, conscious but fading in and out of awareness of his surroundings. It was a small mercy that the drug affected him differently as a bird. He was no longer falling asleep, but he was ill, tired, confused, and very frightened.

The door finally swung outwards. Numair toppled after it, landing on his back. The person standing there failed to notice and the moment he entered the dungeon, Numair rolled over and began his escape. Clumsily flapping his wings, he took off up the corridor.

There was an intersection at the end. Left or right? Right? It all looked very different now. A yell sounded behind him – his empty clothes had been discovered. Forced to make a sudden choice, Numair veered to the left.

Where were the stairs to the ground floor? Closed doorways went past him as he blurrily looked around. Pressing on, he turned another corner. There! He flew up them to another door – it was ajar. He squeezed through the opening.

Footsteps pounded on the stone floor, coming towards him – the man was going to tell Sinthya he was gone. Numair raced up another corridor. A servant screamed and lifted her broom to take a wild swipe at him.

It missed.

Over her shrieks, Numair could hear yelling again. The man at the dungeon had seen and figured out that the oversized black hawk flying around indoors was actually their prisoner. In panic, Numair turned one corner, a second, a third. In a castle that he had known well two days ago, he was lost.

He circled, not knowing where to go next. A hand came out of nowhere, snatching at his tail, pulling a couple of feathers loose. Keening, Numair climbed the air. He was in a hall of some sort. _Door_, he thought. There had to be a door to the outside somewhere.

A plum-coloured bolt of magic shot past Numair, riffling his feathers. Sinthya's mage had arrived. Terrified, Numair beat his wings harder. Every time magic lanced his way, he changed direction, trying to avoid it.

Sunlight fell in a shaft across the room, as the main door opened. Sinthya himself stood there, gaping upwards at the sight of a black bird of prey zooming erratically around the hall. Angry yells sounded from the mage and the man from the dungeons, and Numair wasted no time.

He made straight for the opening. Sinthya stumbled back in shock, and Numair was finally outside. His only intent was to put some space between them, then find Alanna and the Own.

He had travelled half a mile when a new sound lanced into his mind. He turned. Eight impossibly large birds were chasing him, voicing chilling cries.

_Silver wings_? Numair thought, confused. _The Stormwings_! Immortals with a human head and chest, bird's legs and wings. Feathers and talons of steel. The created scourge of war – feeders of fear and flesh, and desecrators of bodies. It was not their voices he had heard, but the squeal of their metal feathers cutting through the air. They had come for him.

Numair trembled from adrenaline and fear, and flew harder still. Sinthya would care no longer about offering him to the Emperor. He would only care about protecting himself. The Stormwings weren't there to bring Numair back alive.

Numair flew over ploughed lands and made for the woods. If he hid, if he waited long enough, then the Stormwings would have to give up … But when he reached them, he despaired. The woods weren't thick, at all. He could easily see the sky through the branches, and if he could see up, then the Stormwings could see down.

He dropped onto a branch and stood there, shaking, beak open and panting. Maybe he could find a tree hollow to hide in …

A branch cracked and snapped not too far away, crashing to the ground. More followed. Stormwings had their own magic. They didn't use it often, but when they did, they nearly always hit their target. They were using magic to blast the trees, to search for him.

_They're not going to stop_, Numair thought, terrified.

More branches cracked and crashed into the undergrowth. He could hear them falling in a wide spread across the woods – the Stormwings were moving in a line.

Numair took to the air again, but he was ill from the drugs coursing through his body. He often had to stop and rest. Each time, his rest breaks became longer and the Stormwings came methodically closer. He didn't know what he would do once he reached the end of the trees.

Resting again, Numair couldn't help but listen to the sound of approaching death. _Alanna and Jonathan would never know_, he thought sadly.

A branch cracked nearby. Turning, Numair saw it drop to the ground. Another branch, thicker than a man's leg, snapped like a twig. He could see the Stormwings not far away, sunlight glinting viciously off their metallic wings and talons. The creatures were filthy and streaked with dried blood.

Fighting a wave of dizziness, Numair fell off his perch and took to the air one last time. The edge of the trees was coming up and he could see open space beyond it. Then the wind changed, blowing in his direction. It carried the beautiful scent of a marsh and renewed hope. Of a wide expanse of reeds and low-growing plants.

Numair bolted from the cover of the trees, a black shape out in the open. The Stormwings gave chase – wings squealing painfully to his ears. He tried to fly straight but his wing muscles were aching terribly and he was so sick that it was impossible. If he survived this, he would not take hawk-shape again for a very long time.

The huge marsh was below him, but near the trees, the plant life and shelter was thin. He had to travel further, go into the middle.

The shrieking grew louder. It wouldn't be long before they ripped him apart …

A shrill whistle split the air over the marsh; Numair didn't bother to look. As the Stormwings hesitated, searching for the source of the noise, he seized his only opportunity, closed his wings and dived.

The marsh was coming up towards him too fast. Numair panicked and opened his wings, trying to slow his fall. They caught the air unevenly. For a single gasping breath, he slowed, tumbling sideways in the air, and slammed into the spongy ground.

His wing cracked and crumpled beneath him. He tumbled over, his world spinning crazily, and crashed into some reeds. Numair lay there, breathless, beak parted in silent gasps for air. His eyes closed as an all-consuming pain washed over him.

Some time later, Numair opened his eyes, clamped his beak and rolled onto his claws. Unable to stop himself, he cried out as the fierce ache turned into fresh throbs. He staggered but remained upright, with good wing folded, bad one outstretched.

A log was nearby. He stumbled towards it, found a hollow at the nearest end and waddled inside.

Out of sight, he remained, beak open and panting. His wing … no, arm … or was that wing-arm? … was broken. If he could have laughed in hawk shape, he would have.

He closed his eyes and hoped for help. He didn't often ask the gods for anything but he did so now. _Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith, please let it come. I cannot do this alone._

Numair waited for such a long time that he thought his plea went unheard. Maybe they couldn't hear him in bird-shape. He continued hoping and praying.

Soft footfalls came in his direction. Numair shivered. Sinthya's men? Armed men? He backed further into the log.

The footsteps wandered away. A fox yipped; Numair prayed he wasn't about to get eaten. The footsteps came back.

Boots stopped in front of his hiding place. Someone crouched down and peered in, looking at him. A girl. Her face swum in and out of focus.

"Come on out – they've gone," she said softly, holding out her hands.

Even in his half-crazed state, Numair could tell this girl was like no other. Kindness and empathy radiated from her and made him feel safe. Trusting her, he slowly waddled out of the log and into her hands.

The girl very slowly lifted him onto the top of the log, taking care not to bump his outstretched, broken wing. Being moved still hurt. He stood there with his beak open, panting, trying to see her properly. Her movements were a blur.

She talked as she worked away on something; he had great difficulty following her words but heard the name "Onua". He was confused. Was she taking him to his friend?

Then she was spreading his wing out further. Numair cried out and trembled as bones shifted and grated in several places, but he still trusted her. Instead of slashing out with his claws, he clutched weakly at the log. The girl secured his wing to a framework of reeds and then gathered him up.

Some time later, she brought him to Onua Chamtong of the K'miri Raadeh. Her presence was also calming – she knew who he was and wouldn't lead him into danger. Onua examined him carefully before placing him on one of the pack-ponies, leaving him to clutch at the pack below. He remained quiet as they travelled, and swayed from side to side.

The days and nights passed by in a blur. He was hungry but he couldn't eat. The girl put things in front of him but he couldn't understand what they were for. Onua talked to him but he didn't know what she said. He was vaguely aware that the girl had bound his claws to the pack he rested on. He grew weaker. His wing remained broken and fever set in.

He no longer moved, only shivered.

The girl wrapped him in warmed cloths but still, he became worse.

Another friend came to see him, Alanna of Pirate's Swoop and Olau, the King's Champion, and the only lady knight in living memory. Numair blinked, struggling to focus, then gave up and buried his head against her.

With Onua in the lead, Alanna carried him into a tent and placed him onto a cot. Purple fire from her magic washed over his wing, making the broken pieces knit together and heal. Coolness radiated out from her fingertips, driving away the fever that was consuming him. For the first time in Numair didn't know how long, he wasn't ill.

But he was still terrified and confused. He remembered being hunted and remained in hawk-shape, not wanting to change back into human. Staying disguised as a bird was safer.

The King's Champion tried cajoling him, then pleading, and finally, she started yelling.

Numair cowered on the cot. Alanna was short but she had a terrible temper, and while Numair was a hawk, she was bigger than he was. Couldn't she see that he was unable to shift back?

At last, she stamped out of the tent, vented her frustration some more and brought in a familiar soothing presence. The girl from the marsh.

"I think I need your help," said Alanna. "How did you find him?"

The girl swallowed. "I listened for him, your ladyship, that's all. I just sat down and listened."

"Can you do that for me now?"

"But he's right here," she answered, looking at Numair.

"Turn your back on him if that helps," the Lioness suggested. "Listen for him _exactly_ as you did in the marsh."

The girl did as she was told. Alanna fiddled with a gem at her throat, an encased glowing ember, a gift from the Great Mother Goddess herself. The gem amplified Alanna's Gift, bathing the girl in purple light.

"I hear him, mum," the girl said sleepily, after a while. "He's a prisoner and he can't get out. But he's right there on the bed –"

"Hush," said the Lioness. "Call to him. With your mind. His name is Numair Salmalín."

"Alanna," Onua broke in. "Maybe Arram is better. He's only been Numair for eight years, but he's been Arram all his life."

"True. Call to him as Arram, Daine." The lady knight's voice was gentle but firm.

The girl – Daine – sighed. "Arram Salmalín? You're too far away. Come on, Arram, you're safe."

Numair heard her, both out loud and within. Her voice in his mind was protective and gentle – he believed her. With a snapping of the reed splints upon his wing, Numair changed back into a man.

Onua pulled a sheet up over his naked body, as Daine turned around, scowling. "Now see here," she said. "How is his wing going to get any better if –" She gaped. "Onua, where did that man come from? Where's my hawk?"

"Can I have something to eat?" Numair asked drowsily.

Daine continued gaping at him. Onua grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her from the tent.

Alanna bent over and peered into his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry. Tired," said Numair.

"Hold on a moment." She left the tent for a short while and returned with a bread roll and an apple.

Numair accepted the apple but he was unable to bite it. Alanna used her belt knife, carving pieces for him to eat. He managed half.

"I have it," he said sleepily. "The information that Sinthya is dealing with Carthak. Do you want it now? You can take it from my mind."

"No," said the King's Champion. She spread a blanket over him and patted his covered shoulder. "Rest. We can talk tomorrow."

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Numair woke the following day to find the sun had long since risen. His muscles were stiff and aching, and he was _hungry_. A paper bag of food was beside his cot, and he fell upon the contents, polishing off bread rolls, smoked ham, cheese, and dried figs.

He was looking around, wondering what to do next when Alanna walked in with an armful of clothes and a pair of boots.

"Good. You're awake," she said, and showed off breeches, two pairs of shirts, two loincloths, and footwear. "Courtesy of the tallest soldier in the King's Own."

Numair grinned and pointed at the boots. "Those aren't going to fit."

"Of course they're not," she said, dropping the clothes on the end of the bed. She put the boots down and used her Gift on them, making them grow in size. "There. One extra-extra-large pair of footwear." She cast her eye over him. "You've only had a partial healing – I'll finish it when you're dressed. Need one of the men to give you a hand?"

"I think I can manage," Numair said dryly.

He waited until the tent flapped closed behind the lady knight and eased himself out of bed, all stiff-jointed and muscles aching. The clothes fit well enough. The boots he left alone – he wouldn't be going outside today.

When the Lioness returned, she was carrying two cups of liquid, which she set aside for the moment. Onua was with her.

"You missed all the excitement last night," Onua told him.

Numair shifted his lanky legs, making room for her to sit at the end of his cot. "What excitement?"

"You mean you didn't hear anything?" she teased.

"Hear what?"

"Spidrens attacked the camp last night," said Alanna. She was referring to immortal creatures, previously imprisoned in the Divine Realms, just like the Stormwings had been. These new ones were similar to a giant spider, but with the head and neck of a human. Like Stormwings, they ate human prey. Unlike Stormwings, they didn't go after the already dead. They chose to kill their food themselves. "There were two of them," Alanna added. "They must have a nest somewhere – the Own is checking the woods for more as we speak."

"Anyone hurt?" Numair asked quickly, tossing the covers aside.

"Nothing to worry about," Onua assured him.

The lady knight watched him with sharp eyes, and as he moved to stand, pressed lightly on his shoulder. Much to Numair's chagrin, he buckled under the added weight and fell back against the cot.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "You've been ill for days."

He looked up at her, helplessly. "How long?"

"It's been six since Daine found you in the marsh," Alanna said.

Numair panicked. Sinthya would have already hidden, if not destroyed all evidence of his dealings with Carthak. Important documents, papers …

The King's Champion read his expression. "His lordship must wait for the moment. _You_ are also important. Lie down properly," she ordered in a no-nonsense tone. "_Now_."

Numair did as he was told, muttering rebelliously, "I feel sorry for your children."

"My children know when to stay put," retorted Alanna, snapping the sheet and blanket back over him. "You would do well to learn the same."

Numair scowled and changed the subject. "Daine," he said. "Where does she fit in all this?"

"She's my new assistant," Onua said, looking pleased with herself. As the Horsemistress, Onua was charged with finding mounts for the Queen's Riders who helped protect the realm. "Daine's the best one yet. Skilled on the longbow – she took out one of the spidrens – _and_ she has a way with animals."

While Alanna used her healing Gift again, Numair considered the girl. It was more than just a way, he thought. Daine had wild magic, and in great measure. He wondered if she was aware of it. As the realm's expert on wild magic, he'd be able to teach her how to harness and control her power. It wasn't much repayment for saving his life, but it was something, and talent wasn't meant to be wasted.

The purple glow of Alanna's magic faded. "I've laid a slow healing on you," she said, turning his thoughts back to the present. "It will continue to work over the next few days, reinforcing your arm, and strengthening you." She produced the vile-smelling cup of liquid. Numair took it and downed the contents in a hurry, tasting bitter herbs. "Ready to talk about Lord Sinthya, now?" she asked.

Numair nodded.

Alanna summoned two soldiers, one of which carried a writing desk, and Numair detailed his actions within Sinthya's fief and castle, how he had escaped. Then he told them what he had discovered.

"We thought that Emperor Ozorne's interest in Tortall was recent, due to his own empire's drought and failing crops. He's wanted Tortall's lands far longer than that."

"He has?" the King's Champion asked warily.

"Sinthya's got records going back several years," informed Numair. "He was originally approached and offered an ongoing sum of money to shelter Ozorne's spies. The records were all in his study, income sheets, dates, and a full list of names."

The Lioness thumped her fist triumphantly into her other hand. "Can you remember them?"

Numair recited all thirty of the names he had seen and the scribe carefully wrote them down. "Sinthya was very smug about hiding those records," he added.

"Probably did the moment you escaped," said Alanna. "But I'm still going to the local magistrate about a warrant for my lord's arrest. Then we'll see what more we can get out of him. Now, those Stormwings … You said they were going to transport you to Carthak?"

Numair nodded. "It's strange. Stormwings are indiscriminate – they'll feed off any casualty of war. They have no reason to work with Ozorne." He thought for a moment and said, "Sinthya's mage must have spells to summon and control them, but his workrooms were the one place I couldn't search. He hardly left them and when he did, complex spells were in place to alert of intruders. I was hoping your search warrant would get you in, but those records would have vanished now, too." His shoulders slumped, and he said, dispirited, "I'm sorry. I wish there was more I could tell you."

"You've done plenty, Numair," Alanna said, patting him on the arm. She thanked the two men from the King's Own and sent them out of the tent. "I'll get that warrant first thing tomorrow."

"You could always get it today," he pointed out.

"You're not strong enough yet for the road," she said. "I'm not leaving you to pass out and get treated by a hedge-witch. For the rest of today, you get to swallow my teas." She thrust the second cup under his nose and grinned wickedly. As a knight regularly in need of healing herself, she knew just how bad they were.

"Joy," muttered Numair. He felt better after taking it but that didn't stop him from complaining. "Can't you make one that doesn't taste foul?"

"Not a chance."

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The following morning, Numair was struck by how quiet the camp was. When he stepped out of the tent, he saw why. It was nearly midday, and the Lioness and the Own were already gone. Disgruntled, he realised the last cup of medicinal tea Alanna had given him was a sleeping potion. They were the last things he wanted to be swallowing at the moment, but at least _hers_ was much more pleasant.

Only two people remained – Onua and Daine, the girl with wild magic. He joined them by the fire where they sat mending leatherwork.

The K'mir pointed at his boots with an awl. "How in the name of all the Horse Lords did you find a pair that fits? There's tea in the kettle if you want some."

"Alanna. She witched them." He poured tea for himself and took a careful sip of the hot brew. "No one else had a pair near big enough," he added, with an easy grin. Numair glanced in the girl's direction, hoping to catch her eye, to thank her for saving him but she was too busy concentrating on her work. He studied what he could – blue wool dress, skirts kilted up to reveal leggings and boots, a headscarf which tamed smoky-brown curls that fell about her shoulders. She was a country girl. Thin.

"What about your own magic?" Onua wanted to know.

"I'm tapped out for the moment. It'll come back, given a few days or so." Setting down his mug, Numair walked over to the girl and reached out to hold the rein that she was struggling to mend. This close, he could again sense the wild magic coming from her. She was brimming with it; he'd never known a human to have so much.

"Thanks," she whispered as she set the final stitch.

"You look different," he said.

_That_ got her attention.

"What?" she asked, startled. There was the trace of a blush upon her. She looked about thirteen years old. A shy child. Pretty, though. Her dress complimented her blue-grey eyes.

Knowing that his height and presence tended to scare some people, Numair smiled gently. "You were a lot bigger."

"Seems to me you were a bit smaller," she said, voice soft.

Numair let go of the strap she had fixed and returned to his seat. "I'd be dead if not for you. You're called Daine?"

She nodded.

"I'm glad to meet you, Daine. I'm Numair Salmalín."

"I thought you were Arram."

Numair nearly gave a start of surprise. He had forgotten that she knew his first name, the one that his enemies in Carthak knew him by. His eyes flicked to Onua who gazed steadily back with an imperceptible nod. Daine could be trusted. "Arram is my boyhood name. I go by Numair now."

Daine took the hint. "The honour is mine, Master Numair," she said shyly, and smiled.


End file.
